


that's lovely, sherlock

by wildmiracle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Fic, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, fluffy fluff, it's everything we deserve, these cuties, they get married, they're domestic, they're gay and in love, they're so gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:17:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildmiracle/pseuds/wildmiracle
Summary: five times sherlock played violin for john & one time john tried to return the favor





	that's lovely, sherlock

1  
It took a few months of living together for Sherlock to develop his technique. From almost the very first night, John’s nightmares were audible through the bedroom wall. Sometimes he yelled, sometimes he cried. Sometimes he woke up gasping, his sheets soaked through with sweat. In the beginning, Sherlock hadn’t had a clue what to do. This funny man, the one who called him fantastic and out on his bullshit in one breath, was among the kindest people he had ever met and Sherlock had no idea how to help him. 

For a while, Sherlock would pace in the living room. As time passed, he took to pacing immediately outside John’s bedroom, as close to the door as he could get. He told himself that this was to try and wake him up with his footsteps. 

Once Sherlock had woken him up. It was the first and last time he would try that. John had reached out, his eyes wild, and tried to choke him. After he realized what he was doing, he apologized profusely, not questioning why Sherlock was in his room. 

After that, Sherlock spent a good while just listening to him. It was harder than Sherlock remembered, to care so much about someone. 

He found out that it worked by accident. It was a crying night, the kind where his sobs cut right through the heart that Sherlock claimed not to have. He clenched his fist. Eventually, he couldn’t stand it and sprung up, grabbing his violin. He agitatedly rammed the bow across the strings, not even making music, just creating noise. After a few moments of that, Sherlock desisted, chiding himself. How dare he act on these emotions of his, when John was suffering only a room away? He carried on berating himself, until he heard it. The unmistakable groan of bedsprings. The noise it made when someone stood up. 

Sherlock flew to the kitchen and started the kettle, trying desperately to look busy, as John emerged from his room. Red eyed, but otherwise no worse for wear, he sleepily asked “Sherlock, what are you doing up?”

“The usual. Are you alright, John?” Sherlock inquired, steadily pouring a cup of tea.

“Course. Why?” 

Sherlock hip checked him into his usual armchair and handed him the tea. 

“No reason.”

John looked up at him just quickly enough to see the appraising look Sherlock had fixed on him before it slipped away. Quite quickly, he understood, but decided not to comment. Sherlock agreed. They never spoke of this nighttime routine, but when it started to get dark out Sherlock always rosined his bow and put a kettle on. 

 

2  
“Would it really hurt you all that much to be nice to me? In fact, not even kind, just not insulting all the time?” John stormed, slamming a cupboard door shut as the kettle whistled.

“I mean, after all, you could at the very least pretend we’re friends. I’m not your bumbling assistant, I’m your boyfriend.” he added with a scoff, pulling out his favorite tea cup.

“Tea.” Sherlock said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll have some tea.” 

“You absolute ass.” John took his mug with him to his bedroom, shutting the door with a bang.

About an hour and a half later the song started coming through the walls. One of John’s favorites, an old military piece about Queen and country. Sherlock hated it, and as a matter of principle refused to listen to it. He slipped downstairs quietly, to see Sherlock facing the door he knew he would exit. He looked at him for a bit. Sherlock gave a tiny little smile, then returned to his song. John sat down with the paper in his armchair across from his partner’s stand. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought this might be an apology. 

He was certain half an hour later when Sherlock stopped playing to check on some fungus growth rate experiment in the kitchen and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead for a little longer than usual. 

3.  
Sherlock never made a big deal of anniversaries. Or birthdays for that matter. He’d forgotten John’s almost every year they had been together for it. John, on the other hand, steadily kept track of them, always providing Sherlock with an awkward but warm card and some strange trinket that was exactly what Sherlock’s newest interest was calling for.

That’s why it was even more surprising when John woke up on the day of their anniversary to find Sherlock sitting on his bedside, staring at him. 

“Good God, Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?” he gasped, grasping his chest. 

“Good morning John. Happy anniversary. I have something for you.” Sherlock said easily, with the something of a smirk on his face. 

John blinked a few times. He thought about complaining about this strange and early wake up call, but he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Lead the way then”.

Sherlock situated John with a cup of tea and a blanket (the January months were brutal on the flat, and most of the time Sherlock forgot to turn up the heating until it was too late), then picked up his violin. He began to play, a beautiful piece with sixteenth note runs that seemed like the easiest thing in the world coming from his fingers. John sat spellbound. After he was finished, Sherlock stood still for a moment, as though he was somewhere else, then turned to John.

“I wrote it about you”, Sherlock said roughly. Even after having been together for three years he still struggled on occasion with I love yous and the like. 

“It’s got a steady tempo, but still is capable of surprising you.” he added, shyly sitting down across from John. 

John smiled, tears coming to his eyes. 

“Well, don’t cry about it!” Sherlock said, sounding panicky. 

“I love you.” John whispered, scrubbing roughly at his eyes.

“I love you too.” Sherlock murmured, reaching out for his hand. 

4  
It’s the third night this week that the pair have gone without sleep. A sex slave trading ring from Lebanon is working through London, and the answer is just in front of him but Sherlock can’t seem to see it. What he could see, however, was John’s attempt to stifle a yawn into his shoulder so Sherlock wouldn’t notice. He sighed. John had taken to staying up with Sherlock for the duration on cases, something that used to be a pleasure to him but now he found to be a source of worry. 

John sat at his chair, his eyes drooping. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay for much longer, but he was trying a new theory that Sherlock would sleep if he thought it was the only way to get John to do the same. Fat lot of good it was doing him at the moment. He had to be at the surgery in four hours. 

Sherlock grumbled and then suddenly shot up from his desk, startling John within an inch of his life. 

“Violin break!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Got to think, got to think.”

He began to play, but rather than his customary Vivaldi and Mozart, he played a soft lullaby. John sleepily smiled. It was beautiful. 

“That’s l-l-lovely, Sherlock.” John yawned. 

Sherlock kept going, his mind on autopilot, until he heard John’s soft little snores. Then, with an affectionate smile, he set down his violin. 

5  
Sherlock is standing at the altar, a grin on his face, a bow tie tied by Mycroft himself, and his violin. As John moves down the aisle, gleaming as he looked at his soon to be husband, Sherlock moved into a rendition of ‘Here Comes the Bride’. John giggles, and Sherlock’s smile grows wider. 

When John reaches the altar, he holds out his hand to the man who will be his partner for the rest of time, and opens his mouth to say something. 

“Why’ve I got to be the wife, you git?” 

+1  
“Sherlock, this is ridiculous. You have to sleep. It’s been days.” John snapped, glaring at his boyfriend.

“M’fine John, don’t be stupid.” Sherlock murmured, rubbing at his curls with a hand that was shaking just enough to be noticeable. 

“Sherlock, you look like shit. I’m not being stupid, you’re being a stubborn cock.” John’s voice was nearing a decibel that could be considered yelling. He took a deep breath.

It was true, Sherlock had looked better than he did just then. His eyes were red, and the marks under them were purple bruises. He looked drawn, and more than a little ill. He looked up a John from his seat at the desk, and in that moment looked so sad and vulnerable that John’s heart nearly shattered.

John softened a bit. “Sweetheart, just sleep. For a little bit”.

“I can’t”. The response was so quiet John could barely hear it.

“Sorry, why not?” he asked, reaching for Sherlock’s quivering hand, if only to quell its tremor.

“I can’t sleep, John. I’ve tried. I can’t.” Sherlock breathed this, as though saying it aloud, admitting this particularly vulnerability, was a sacrilege. 

Oh. Oh. Insomnia. It made sense. All of Sherlock’s sleepless nights, his frustration and avoidance of the subject when John had questioned him about it. How had he never thought of this before?

“How ‘bout I help you? You’ve only got to try for a few moments, and then I’ll stop pestering.” John heaved Sherlock’s long body up, taking note at how this task was easier than it had been a few weeks ago, and led him to John’s bedroom. Sherlock was surprisingly pliant, changing into pajamas and sliding under John’s favorite afghan with no complaint. John plopped down next to him. For a moment they lay there in silence. John could feel Sherlock’s nerves drawing tighter and tighter, and he took a deep breath. 

John began to sing a lullaby. A sweet little ditty that didn’t make much sense, but he hoped would get the job done. His voice wasn’t anything spectacular, but it rose and fell in all the right places. Sherlock reached out and grabbed his hand with a sigh. It took a few rounds, but Sherlock’s breathing began to slow. John sang softly until Sherlock’s sleepy murmuring were consistent, and then stopped and looked over at him. Sherlock’s furrowed brow was now smooth. He looked disarmingly young in his plaid, and although he was a bit peakier than John would’ve liked, he looked peaceful. John sighed contentedly and pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. He loved him, even if he was a git sometimes.


End file.
